Need Unbound
by Spyre
Summary: In the aftermath of Season 4, John and Sherlock have unfinished business. (Angst to fluff. First kiss. Johnlock.)


**Notes:**

Warning and promise: John POV starts dark then launches right into fluff! An exercise in TJLC Explained symbolism and devices, as well as an homage to fandom quirks. Check out TJLC Explained on YouTube!

This fic would never have existed without Juliandra Ivie (JulzSnape on Archive of Our Own) from I Am Johnlocked: Fanfiction Readers and Writers on Facebook. This is a Winter Fic Challenge submission to that group, using a prompt "first snow". Must say a quick thanks to Sharon, too, for her encouragement and time. Cheers!

Symbolism and devices used: deerstalker as heteronormativity, tea as homosexuality, coffee as heterosexuality, elephants, food as sex, The Princess Bride, neck porn, oscillation on the pavement, BAMF John, purple, Ms. Turner's "married ones" as mirrors to John and Sherlock, John makes the tea, water as emotion (snow counts, damnit!)

* * *

 **The Prologue: Sherlock**

"Sherlock, there are men here with a big crate! Say you've special ordered… something. What are you doing?!" Mrs. Hudson paused in the living room.

Sherlock stood before the burning hearth in the flat at 221B Baker Street. He was dressed in proper clothes for the first time in weeks, a look of fierce determination had taken over his angular features as he watched the flames.

Mrs. Hudson came to stand near him, watching the last vestiges of the deerstalker furl and flash as it was consumed in the fire, "You've burned your hat, dear."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth flickered upward, and he met his landlady's concerned eyes, "Send the workers in, if you would, please."

She hesitated, "Sherlock, why don't you go see John? You two really need to patch things up, whatever it takes. You don't find people like him very often."

"I duly concur, Mrs. Hudson. But rest assured. John will come to me."

She huffed in disbelief. He smiled minutely despite himself, turning to her with rare warmth. "When he does, we'll be ready," he said as he placed his hands on her arms and squeezed.

She looked puzzled, and sighed, giving him a soft swat on the shoulder, "You better know what you're doing, Sherlock. Don't muss this up!" She shook a finger at him before turning and declaring as she left the room, "And you can let that lot in yourself. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

Sherlock looked back into the fire. His smile had faded, now replaced by a grim line of doubt. The deerstalker was reduced to ash. He buttoned his jacket, squared his jaw and set off to let the crew and the crate into the flat.

* * *

 **The Story: John**

I readied myself in the empty house, the noise from the telly fading to a squawk even as the lines around my perception blurred and I found myself stilled and staring into a mirror. Alone, and so much more weathered; I hardly recognized that dazed expression as my own.

Gone, everything and everyone, except the dreams and the fragile grip I held on myself, my composure, my reality. I had caught myself glancing at my gun these past weeks, and still more frequently these past few days. Yesterday afternoon, I did not remember picking it up, just that I came to myself sitting there on the bed with it, staring at it. Staring at the gun like I stared at myself, and the swallowing emptiness nearly gave me vertigo.

I had to look away.

I would see him today. Sherlock. It would be solved today. I could not live like this any longer. No.

I had the cabbie drop me prior to Baker Street. I needed the walk. I needed the air. The city was cold. It had already spat snow a few times this morning, nothing that stuck. There was a constant breeze now, one that complimented the numbness within me. Except when the memories surged unbidden… I took a deep, abrupt breath of frigid air, and its expulsion blossomed in front of my face unseen. I only saw, in my mind, the crook of Sherlock's jaw in the strange light of the street lamps. Another place. Another time.

I jammed my hands in the depths of my pockets, and clenched them as I could almost feel Sherlock's shoulders, hair and face burned in the skin of my palms and fingertips. I had not looked into his eyes, those weeks ago. I only wrapped him up in my arms. He had been unmoving at first, but then I felt his arms go around me and his head had rested on mine. That had ended me.

I could not control the few, desperate sobs that had wracked through me. He had been solid in my arms, and I clung to him fiercely. My chest cavity had swelled to almost bursting, and I had choked on a strangled sound in my throat. I hid my face in the crook of his neck, clenching my teeth to keep any keening at bay. I had tried to take a deep breath in through my nose, and the smell of Sherlock filled my senses. I could not get enough air. I opened my mouth for another rattling breath.

It was then, feeling his arms tighten around me, tightening my own arms in return, that I noticed my lips were on his neck, just behind the angle of his jaw, just below his ear. Struck by a strange, internal lightning, I turned my face away, placed my forehead on his shoulder. I felt my body shudder, but not from grief.

I was not mourning. I was terrified. I was lost. Some part of me had been angry at my shitty, fucking luck. But now, with the smell and feel of Sherlock all around me, the anger had shaken loose. In its stead, a quiet, terrified wonder, a longing took hold. I did not have the strength to ignore it.

"Sherlock," I tried to say, and it came out rough, and so full of emotion that I very nearly lost it again. My world was only his arms, that stupid coat, and my hands gripping at its fabric. I had my eyes screwed shut, and I breathed in through my nose and out of my mouth as if I had been through a hell of a fight.

Perhaps I had.

"Yes, John," he answered me. His voice was low, and the shape of the words were so delicate, so manicured, that I felt I could say anything at that moment and it would be sacred.

Because in his words, I heard it…

…as I had heard and ignored it countless times before.

When Sherlock said my name, he said so much more.

He meant so much more.

It scared the hell out of me.

I shivered then. His arms softened around me.

I dare not look at his face. His stupid, beautiful face. Beautiful?

I tilted my head up out of the shelter of his coat, and opened my eyes.

I spied the exposed part of his neck, remembered the warmth of it. I saw the pulse there, and it mesmerized me. I stared at it. I absently noticed my breathing go shallow.

"John," he said my name again in the protracted silence. And this close, I could feel my spoken name vibrate his chest.

I made a noise that I could not readily describe. It was a thoughtless impulse made sonic, and I kissed him there, on his throat, a soft push of lips. My eyes closed, and two tears surprised me as they rolled down my face. They must have been sitting in my eyes. He must have seen them. Horrible thought, that. I did not care. He went rigid when he realized what I had done. Again, I did not care. I kissed him again, on his neck, and my hands leapt from his lapels to his hair.

"John," Sherlock's voice cracked apart, intimately so, in that monosyllabic utterance. I knew how he hated to repeat himself, but he seemed to be unable to say anything else. My name was borne on the air around us, not cold - but affected, and said almost as a warning. He had not pushed me away, though. That was enough encouragement for me. I must have lost my mind, gone mad in the stress of it all. Fractured senseless by death and loss and need unbound.

"Please. Just… Can we just…" I heard myself saying close to his skin, like a prayer, "Pretend I'm not doing this."

Sherlock's breathing was louder and tremulous, now in my ear. His hands dropped to my flanks as if to brace me or push me away. I did not know what I was doing. Truly. I could no longer analyze or care. I just wanted… this. Wholeheartedly so.

In retrospect, my kisses were methodical, almost as if a part of me had planned these ministrations in great detail. These were relatively chaste kisses, and I breathed him in. My fingers filed through his hair, holding him to me. Still, he had not pulled away.

I felt his face move to my ear, his cheek against mine.

I froze at this, marveled at the hitches in his breaths. His lips were at the shell of my ear: "I can't," Sherlock said in a low, tight voice.

It was like a cold bucket of water had been tossed on me, and I let go. I would have stumbled back, had his hands not clamped down on my sides. I could not look into his eyes. I felt my own face go hot. I realized he was trying to get me to meet his gaze.

Shame filled me.

He let me go.

"I can't pretend," Sherlock said, and the words scorched me.

I felt as if he had smacked my mouth.

My lips still tingled from the kisses.

I just fucking walked away, all but ran.

He may or may not have called after me. I could hear no more. I could feel nothing. What had I done?

As I stood on the sidewalk, victim to this invasive memory, I wondered what to expect, what response, from the man I had walked away from, eschewed for so many weeks.

I had fucked it all up. When I had needed him the most, I had forced onto Sherlock Holmes the one thing he could not offer. I was such an idiot. No, worse. I had been a shitty friend. He hadn't deserved it. I hadn't the right.

I hesitated on the pavement outside 221B. I looked up at the windows. How long had I been standing here? Had he already seen me?

Just then, I noticed a tall, familiar figure hurtling in my direction from down the street, yelling something and waving his arms to get my attention. He was being followed by an apparently angry someone in a very dirty business suit.

"NO TIME FOR SULKING, JOHN!" Sherlock shouted as he lunged nearer, dropping his hands as he sprinted, "LITTLE HELP, IF YOU PLEASE!"

"Oh, hell," I responded smartly, and prepared to tackle the man who was chasing my best friend across London.

Sirens were sounding in the distance. I did not have to run to my prey. He did not seem to notice me, his sooty face a twist of rage and singular focus: get Sherlock. That was enough to get my blood up.

I merely stepped into the stranger's path, my feet planted, body low, shoulder first. His momentum barely shifted me, and my interference cost him his balance and breath. He landed flat on his back with a smack to the back of his head via London concrete. He was knocked out.

It wasn't until I confirmed his breathing and equal pupil reactions that I noticed Sherlock standing close, removing his scarf as if overheated from the chase. I stood and faced him full on, chin slightly raised, "You could've easily taken this one." I gave a tilted nod to indicate the man on the ground.

"Yes, well," he began, catching his breath, "The plan was to meet Lestrade here with the suspect, and I planned on doing it myself, but…" and he gestured to me as if that answered the point, "Feel better?" Sherlock asked with a horribly intimate smirk barely concealed behind his default mask of indifference.

"Fine. Terrific. I wasn't sulking," I replied with a sniff and a convenient look away at the supine perpetrator. I could not deny the megrims had lifted from my heart, and now I felt weirdly welcomed, if a little awkward. I chanced a glance at my friend's now smug face. He regarded me with a warmth that made my ears burn and my mind flip-flop. The police cruiser and unmarked car pulled up to the kerb at Speedy's, rescuing me from the rapid and unexpected shift of emotion within me. What the bloody hell?

"What the bloody hell?" Lestrade mirrored my thoughts perfectly, though he was referring to the unconscious man on the sidewalk. A couple of onlookers had gathered at a distance in varying clumps of open-mouthed curiosity, documenting the event with their phones, texting, talking and taking pictures.

Lestrade glared at Sherlock, then at me, then back to Sherlock, "First case in weeks, you couldn't have taken it a bit easy."

"Doctor Watson was just waiting for us here. The suspect ran right into him. It's not anyone's fault, really, except maybe Newton but you can't blame a man for his theories." At which point, Sherlock produced from his coat a dirty, bundle of canvas. He unwrapped it to reveal a small, stone statue of a squat, naked man who was unreasonably well-endowed. Meaning, it had an enormous erection.

"One fertility god for your efforts, Lieutenant," Sherlock said as he handed the statue to the detective. By the way Lestrade gingerly accepted it and held it close, I could surmise its value, though it was far from me why such an ugly thing would be worth the trouble.

I felt the hairs on my neck stand, and looked to Sherlock just in time to see that he had been watching me. I cleared my throat and rolled up on my toes and then back on my heels, eager for a change in subject.

"Thanks for your help," Lestrade chanced the expression of gratitude, and then looked to me with a smile, "Good to see you again, Dr. Watson. What've you been up to?"

I could not answer because Sherlock suddenly placed his gloved hand on my shoulder, and spoke to the detective rather brusquely, "I beg your pardon, detective, but it seems there's a matter of some urgency that needs a doctor's attention. John? If you please?" and he guided me away from the detective and the scene before us.

The suspect was being loaded onto a stretcher. The scene was all very typical for a day with Sherlock. I had missed it dearly. Lestrade raised a hand in parting.

"Good to see you, too," I gave a half-wave and half-smile for the rebuffed detective's benefit. I resolved to have a pint with the man, and soon. At least he didn't make me feel like I was wavering between wanting to punch him and wanting to... what? I looked askance at my friend who directed me closer to the entrance of Speedy's.

The steely gray of the morning had turned subtly darker and colder, even as noon approached. The promise of a heavy snow pressed close as my gut knotted, once again in strange apprehension.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked, letting his hand drop from my shoulder.

"No. Not really," I replied simply. I had come for penance, and was being offered… pie?

Though I was secretly famished, the idea of food was too much to consider at the moment. I felt unsure, off-kilter, but I would muscle through. Surely. I could do this.

"Right. Well," he clapped his hands together dramatically. I could not help but be charmed by his post-case euphoria. "I am famished. Will you join me?"

He looked from the window to my eyes, like a silver-green laser shooting right into me. I nodded once and shrugged, "Sure. Of course. Yeah."

He allowed that almost-grin of his to soften his expression, and opened the door to the restaurant. I followed. I wanted to be swallowed by my jacket, if I am to be honest. This was uncharted territory for us, and it was all inlaid within a typical post-case meal.

Was Sherlock going to ignore my blunder? The kissing? Was he not going to address it? If so, I wish I could do the same. I wish that could be enough. I wanted it to be enough, to just slip right back into my place at his side. My place? Aw, holy hell. I shook my head to myself as I watched Sherlock order.

"Coffee for me, please," I responded to the man behind the counter, though I did not even want coffee at the moment. It would be something to hold onto at least, a prop for normalcy in a sea of unknowns.

As I waited, I considered my options. Sherlock was smart. I would let him deploy his plan first. That is, if he had a plan that was more extensive than simply pretending I hadn't pretty much tried to jump his bones… I felt my cheeks color, and gratefully accepted the coffee. Maybe I could hide my face in the steam. My nose was frosty from the winter chill.

I turned and saw the snow just begin to fall outside, saw the police and people begin to dissipate, back into the motion of their lives.

We did not take a table while we waited for Sherlock's order. We stood there, some space between us, watching the world. I wondered, as I often tended to, what my friend saw when we shared the same vista. Just being near him changed the way I saw things. He made me aware of the infinite possibility of detail, meaning and history. Interconnectivity. And I remembered one night, long ago, as we walked through an alley on a case, how he had remarked on the beauty of the stars.

Did he now see the beauty of the snow?

I went to blow the steam from my coffee, and turned to face the interior of the deli. Sherlock's gaze moved from the street to me, his nose still pink from the cold, his hair a touch wild from the chase. He had left the scarf untied around his neck. I dare not look there. His long neck! I wanted to lick it. The smell of the coffee made my stomach tighten. At least, I think it was the coffee.

I lowered the lidded, paper cup and cleared my throat, "What was all that about, then? The statue?"

"Basically a primal obsession with the erect penis."

He did it to me, despite myself, made me laugh. The arse.

He continued: "Nothing too interesting. Not important. Ah, here it is," He accepted the bag of food with a thanks and a nod. He really was in rare form.

He swept out of the sandwich shop into the curtain of snow that was falling over London. I was a step or so behind, holding tight to my neglected beverage. I waited behind him as he used the key to unlock the door to the flat. The snow settled in his hair and on his shoulders. Our breaths now blossomed white before us.

He had the door open and we piled in, with me shutting the door and locking it behind us. Sherlock had paused and was very quiet. He seemed to be on high alert, as if something was wrong. I followed suit, alarmed.

"Oh, I nearly forgot!" he finally declared, and was bounding up the stairs.

I quickly sat the coffee on the floor at the foot of the stair, ready for a fight.

"What is it?" I asked, now trailing close behind. I got the answer as I rounded the corner at the top of the stairs and stepped into the sitting room.

The holiday decorations must have been beautiful, but now they were wrecked. The tree was dark, on its side, ornaments flung far like a cascade of discarded fruit. Some were smashed. The garland on the fireplace was still glowing with fairy lights, though askew and sad looking. Three stockings lay crumpled on the ground.

"Sherlock, what happened…"

He was removing the needle from a record that had been skipping and popping. The sound must have caught his attention from downstairs, "That man whom you summarily... detained. He had been here. That was the start of it all. This was his doing."

"I suddenly feel better about my part in his being detained. Why ruin the decorations?"

"Oh, he had help," Sherlock added as he disappeared into the kitchen. I carefully crept further into the mess.

"Help?" I picked up a sleigh bell at my foot, gave it an obligatory jingle.

"Well, yes, there was a bit of a row," he explained, unpacking the food cartons, "I know that you said you weren't hungry, but I got a double order just in case."

It was then that I noticed it. I unthinkingly dropped the bell in absolute surprise, and it jangled merrily across the floor. I approached the middle of the room and stared at what now hung on the wall over the couch.

"What… is… that? Is that…" I managed to say before I shut my mouth and just stared.

An elephant head hung on the wall, adorned with a popcorn and cranberry garland. It was enormous. And it was as intrusive as I imagined an elephant's head could be in a small flat in the middle of London.

"Hoo-hoo," called Ms. Hudson as she popped into the flat, carrying two gift bags, one in each hand, "Oh, dear."

She shook her head and tutted at the mess. She was peppered with snow about her shoulders. It was just starting to melt. I looked around for Sherlock but he had disappeared for the moment. I looked back at the elephant, and stared.

"John, dear! It's good to see you back here," Ms. Hudson greeted me and approached. We both stared at the elephant because… how could we not?

She tutted again, and sighed, "Isn't it ghastly!? I'm surprised it hasn't given me nightmares. He put it up a few days ago. But he's been in such a slump that when he snapped out of it, I was just happy to see him moving about again! I didn't have the heart to question it."

We shared a protracted silence after that, just gaped at it, in a kind of awe. I shook my head once as if to break a spell.

"How have you been, then? Having a good holiday?" I turned to her and found myself smiling softly at her. She was so resilient. You had to be, to live with Sherlock. Hell, to be in any consistent proximity to Sherlock took all kinds of resilience. Yes, Mrs. Hudson was a real trooper.

"Oh, just fine. Just fine! I helped Sherlock decorate, not the elephant obviously, but everything else. So sad to see it in such a state, but I imagine you boys'll fix it right up! Now, I have got to drop off this present for you and Sherlock." She handed the purple bag to me, and kept the other in her hand, "I am going to visit next door. Ms. Turner's tenants brought home their new baby just yesterday! Can you believe it!? They named her Rebekah, you know. The best Christmas gift if you ask me! Well, tah, dear. I hope to see you later. Merry Christmas, love!"

I participated in a short, farewell hug and she was gone, leaving me holding the purple bag.

Sherlock was still M.I.A., probably showering. That was when I heard the tea kettle whistling its readiness. Tea sounded fantastic. I walked to the kitchen and set the gift on the table. I commenced to preparing the brew.

Some minutes passed in relative silence. I was starting to become nervous as I observed the steeping bags, hands clenching and unclenching at my sides. The brown coloring of the saturated tea leaves began to creep from the fine, paper packaging. The swirling clouds of amber drifted lazily in the hot water. What was Sherlock's plan? Was this it?

I could not ignore the change of heart I had experienced, could not simply pick up where Sherlock and I had left off. I had lost too much, and realized too much, and I needed a resolution. I did not know exactly what I wanted from Sherlock, but I had a vague idea… and it wasn't just the simple friendship that we had enjoyed for so long. I needed more now, for some reason I could not or did not want to understand. It was too much to think about.

I braced myself for the very real possibility that this would be our last holiday spent as friends.

"I could hear your brain working from the bedroom," Sherlock said from the other side of the kitchen table.

I turned to face him with a half-hearted quip but the smartarse remark died on my lips as I saw Sherlock, topless and slightly damp from the shower. He wore low-slung pajama pants, the comfy ones that seemed to be made of threadbare cotton. The pajama bottoms were so low that the angles of his pelvis were exposed.

He had not an ounce of fat on him, but he had thickened up a bit. It seemed he had actually been eating more lately. It looked good on him, less bone, more healthy. And for once, I could acknowledge to myself that my admiration of his physique was not purely clinical or aesthetic. It was because it was Sherlock.

"I love you," I blurted, staring at his nipples. His nipples? I tried to meet his eyes, but succeeded only briefly before staring down at my feet.

He was studying my face. I could feel him watching me as he responded, "Ah, yes. Well... [a breath] There's that."

I glanced up at him, and he looked absolutely flabbergasted, flustered in such a way that it gave me an odd calming confidence. I shrugged with one shoulder, "Listen, I don't expect you to do anything, but that's partly why I came over. I needed you to know."

He attempted to right himself, his voice a bit low, deadly serious, "I know."

I nodded. Of course he knew. Then, I got a strange feeling he meant something else. I furrowed my brow, "Wait, what do you mean you _know_? You mean… you… _knew_?"

He just looked at me, but his face was softer now than I had seen it in ages. I felt drawn to him at that moment, the inexorable pull, almost like a tether from my chest to his, and my hands and arms felt hungry to be around him.

"How long?" I asked.

He did not answer directly, but asked in return, "Will you eat with me?"

I hesitated. I opened my mouth to say something, but closed it and nodded. I turned to rescue the tea bags from the water. I took a deep breath. I had said it. I had told him. I felt a knot loosen in my stomach, and felt somewhat giddy from my awkward-as-hell confession. I shrugged to myself. I had done what I had come to do.

And now we were going to eat lunch.

"John," I heard him say my name, oddly unsure. I picked up the cups from the counter and turned to look at him. He locked eyes with me and I licked my lips nervously. It was hard not to stare at his exposed self. I set the tea on the table before me. I forced myself to act natural. Sort of failing at it, too.

He paused for a moment, took a deep breath, "The truth is… I planned on seducing you."

I was shocked at first, struck mute. I gave an abrupt laugh of surprise and crossed my arms tightly to myself, leaning back against the counter behind me. He seemed to relax a fraction. He stepped around the table, and I froze like a stone, smile locked onto my face in apprehension. Was this happening? I held my breath. And then he was there, an arm's reach away.

"I miscalculated, though," he said softly. He took one more step, pivoting to stand just before me, just at the edges of my personal space.

I frowned at that, heart suddenly hammering away in my chest. "What?"

"You don't need seducing, do you? You don't play… games," he tilted his chin down, head cocked slightly to the side.

I let my eyes drop from his ice-green gaze, let it flicker down his chest, belly, the cinch at his pants, and then back up to his lips.

"I would rather skip the obvious, John," he intoned in that quintessential, curt way of his, and then continued rather simply, "I am here if you… want."

We were staring into eachother's eyes now. He looked resigned if a bit unsure.

As ever, when Sherlock was less than absolutely confident, I felt my own self bolstered, become resolute and forward. I maintained eye contact, gauging his reaction. I uncrossed my arms, and reached a hand out to his sternum. My fingers felt his warm skin, and then I pressed my palm there, over his heart. It thudded hard in his rib cage. The sensation thrilled me.

I smiled fleetingly in wonder. He looked down at my hand, and then into my eyes. His pupils widened even as I watched, his jaw clenched. He was definitely turned on, but he was also… scared?

"I do want this..." I said in a hushed voice, "Not even sure what this is."

I got the feeling he was trying not to get too exasperated at my remark, as if suppressing a roll of his eyes, "Please, John, this is new to me as well, but I would really like to…" - he gesticulated with a characteristic rolling wave of his hand as he searched for the words - "…get on with it."

"Get on with it?" I repeated, a little taken aback and feeling more than a bit impish. I could not hide my grin.

He fidgeted in frustration as I took my hand away from his chest, "Oh, for god's sakes, John! I mean the kissing!" He put his hands on his hips and glared.

"Hmmm," I stood now, off of the counter, and that brought us within that universally intimate proximity. I smirked as if he had said something fairly amusing, which he had and it delighted me.

I was openly ogling him now, deciding finally to let my desire show in my eyes. He probably had seen it already, but never so openly. Truth be told, I never felt it so wholly until this moment, so close. It was nearly overwhelming, if not for the predatory impulse that began to build within my gut.

He huffed quietly at my expression, all fidgeting died away, and he became absolutely still except he tilted his chin up minutely, exposing his throat and the hard swallow that followed. He spoke then, "Despite evidence to the contrary, you're not very good at this," he accused, though his voice was not nearly as acerbic as his words, softened by some unnamed emotion. His gaze was darting between my eyes and my smirking mouth. His impatience presented more as nervousness than anything else. Sherlock... nervous? A huge turn on for me apparently.

I licked my lips before placing both my hands at his flanks, sliding them down and around his lower back. I pulled us together, from navel to thigh.

"C'mere, you great giraffe," I quipped softly, tilting my face up to him. He looked flustered, hesitated an agonizing moment as he studied my expression. Abruptly, a tiny, unguarded smile hinted at the corners of his lips. He then lowered his mouth to mine. We both shared a soft smile before our first kiss set my heart on fire.


End file.
